


The Silver Lining on a Blue and Pink Flag

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Pining, Pre-Relationship, S1-S2, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Martin Blackwood, au where everyone talks about their feelings, playing with the pre-canon timeline a bit because i can, there's a bit of headhopping near the beginning but mostly Martin's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Making time for top surgery as an archival assistant isn’t easy, but at least the insurance plan is good.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 305





	The Silver Lining on a Blue and Pink Flag

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a self-indulgent ficlet about Jon and Martin talking about gender and turned into a 5k-word fic. Such is the way of things.
> 
> CW’s: mentions of transphobia (external and internalized), mentions of childhood emotional abuse, mentions of hospitals and surgery. None are depicted in detail, only spoken of by characters

After two hours of struggling (and failing) to commit Case #0149011 to a digital recording, Jon finally gave in, digging out the old tape recorder again and settling in to finally – _finally!_ – get some work done today. Naturally, that’s when _Martin_ chose to interrupt.

“Uh, Jon?” came his timid call from the door, accompanied by an even more timid two-fingered knock. “Do you have a moment?”

Jon took a deep breath, counted to ten, and asked, “What is it, Martin?”

Martin cracked open the office door just wide enough to slip through and shut it again, silent as ever. He had this habit where he would turn the knob inward before shutting a door, like he wanted to make as little noise as possible when entering or leaving a room. It drove Jon mad.

Martin stopped short when he saw the tape recorder and case file laid out on Jon’s desk. Guilt flashed over his face, and he stuttered out an apology. “Is – is this a bad time? I can come back when –“

Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes. He had promised Sasha he wouldn’t be so hard on him, and as much as Martin got on his nerves, he dared not cross Sasha James. “No, I just – what do you need, Martin?”

“Ah. Yes. I – Well, I have a doctor’s note. For, um – I need time off. Two weeks, actually.” He scuttled forward just far enough to slide a folded piece of paper onto Jon’s desk, and then he stepped back again. He folded his arms behind him and shrunk his head down between his shoulders. It always baffled Jon how a man so much taller than him could manage to make himself look so small in comparison.

Jon unfolded and glanced over the paper. He didn’t bother reading it, really – he trusted Martin wouldn’t outright forge a work document – but he did catch the words “two weeks”, “Martin Blackwood”, and “surgery”. That was good enough for him. He folded the paper back up and offered it to Martin.

“Very well. I’ll let Elias know, if that’s alright with you –“

“No!”

Jon raised his eyebrows.

“I – I mean, I can do that? It’s just, well, it’s sort of personal, Jon, you know?”

Was it? Oh. Mark that down as another memo Jon had missed in his limited social education. He simply nodded and said, “Right, sorry. Carry on, then. And good luck, I suppose.”

Martin sighed into a weary smile. “Thanks!”

As he neared the door again, Jon called out, “And Martin?” The man in question froze in the doorway, the look on his face something Jon recognized as, for some reason, akin to hope. “I’d like the follow-up on Case #0161301 done by tonight, thank you.”

He didn’t see Martin roll his eyes as he called back, “Sure, Jon.”

* * *

In the main archival office, Martin collapsed into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

Tim and Sasha looked up from their tasks to exchange a glance. “Soooo,” Tim began, “How’d it go?”

“Fine? I guess?” Martin said, running a hand through his hair. He shrugged, “He wished me good luck.”

“That’s good,” Sasha said, which Martin took to mean, that’s the bare minimum of human decency.

Unlike Tim’s and Sasha’s, the desk in front of Martin was almost mockingly empty, save for a couple of files and a half-forgotten cup of tea. He glanced over the case file for #0161301 and shuddered. All the stories they dealt with in the archives were disturbing, but this one was just so... sad. This poor woman obviously just missed her fiancé a lot. To find herself in a place so physically and emotionally lonely... Martin didn’t think he could bear it. To hell with Jon’s passive-aggressive jabs, this one could wait. Martin closed the case file and turned back to Tim and Sasha.

“You know, Jon didn’t seem at all put off by me asking for leave, which is more than I can say for other places I’ve worked...” Martin shook his head and sighed.

“But...?” Sasha prompted.

“But I had to stop him from trying to tell Elias himself.”

Tim choked on a mouthful of coffee. “What.”

Sasha covered her eyes with her hands. “Oh my god, Jon.”

“I mean, it’s not like I’m stealth!” Martin protested, albeit weakly.

Tim laughed. “Yeah no, that’s a great idea Martin! Let your idiot boss tell your creepy boss about your top surgery plans!”

“He’s not an idiot,” Martin said.

Tim sobered up on a dime and fixed him a Look. “How long exactly have you known Jonathan Sims?”

“I don’t know, since I started at the institute? Two years?”

“And how long did it take him to realize you were trans?”

Martin bit his lip. “You know, to be honest, I’m pretty sure he assumed I was cis until just now.”

Sasha, still doubled over in second-hand embarrassment, groaned in frustration behind her hands. Tim seemed to be having trouble holding back another laugh. “Okay, see? Do you see what the problem is here, Martin? A trans person who doesn’t notice another trans person, even when he’s had a flag on his desk for the past two years of working together? Even when he regularly talks about it? What does that sound like?”

Martin began, “Well...”

“An idiot, Martin,” Sasha interjected. “That sounds like an idiot.”

“Okay, okay,” Martin conceded, hands up in surrender. “Maybe he’s a bit oblivious.”

“You’re telling me,” Tim muttered over the lip of a coffee mug. Martin glared at him. “What? You’ve been crushing on him since we were in Research, and he’s never once taken the hint.”

“Maybe he has, and he’s just not into me,” Martin said.

Tim and Sasha exchanged another look.

“What?” Martin demanded.

“I’ve known Jon for four years,” Tim said, waving his mug around so much Martin worried his seat would soon become the splash zone. “And I spent the first two of them trying to ask him out. He was so painfully clueless, I had to literally spell it out for him.” He took a long sip of coffee. “And we didn’t even go on a second date.” Sasha patted his back sympathetically, but her bitten-back smile said otherwise.

“What he means to say,” she continued, “is that you both have the same terrible taste in men.”

A snort came from behind their desks. “Who does Tim have a crush on now?”

The three assistants froze in place, then spun in unison to find Jon approaching, case file in hand.

“Sasha, could you look into...” he stopped in his tracks. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

* * *

There were a number of drawbacks to being trapped in your flat for three weeks by spooky killer worms and their spookier killer-ier worm lady. Trauma, for one. Lots of that. Also, a newfound hatred of canned peaches. And missing your top surgery date was pretty high up there, too.

Martin knew it was a silly thing to be hung up on, all things considered. He nearly died, for Christ’s sake! But he also had assumed by now he’d be a bit less top-heavy, and that was a disappointment all on its own. He had had to sit on the phone with hospital representatives for hours, being passed from department to department while he begged to reschedule and made vague excuses for his already-missed appointment. Even weeks later, he was still tangled up in the red tape. But maybe that was for the best for the time being, considering his living situation.

Martin startled awake on the stiff cot tucked away in the back of Document Storage. The first thing he was aware of, was the cracked dryness of his mouth and throat. The next thing, was that his chest felt tight and achy, like someone had been sitting on him while he slept. He brought his hand up to cough into and felt his wrist brush against fabric.

_Ah. Shit._

Whatever, he could deal with the binder situation after he got a drink of water. Good god, was it always so hot down here? And at night?

Slowly, painfully, Martin peeled himself off the cot and hobbled into the main archival office. He had been living in the archives for about three weeks, but he didn’t think he could ever accustom himself to what they were like after dark. Everything was utterly silent, and even with his eyes adjusted to the dark Martin could barely make out what was two feet in front of him. Despite this, he could always feel a prickling sensation at his shoulder, like somewhere in the room, someone was watching.

Tonight, however, the archives weren’t so grim. Past his own desk, at the end of the hall, shone a thin sliver of warm yellow light. Martin checked his phone: already past midnight. Jon must have left his office light on.

Martin pushed into the room without caution, shielding his eyes from the harsh light from within. His hand was an inch from the light switch when a voice nearly scared him right out of his skin.

“AH! Martin!”

Martin went rigid and dropped both hands to his sides in an instant, not caring about the glare in his eyes. Slowly, they adjusted to reveal a very startled, very tired-looking Jon at his desk. His hair was knotted and falling from its bun, and his tie hung loose around his neck. Martin’s sleep-addled thoughts could only register how rare it was to see Jon without all his professional bluster nowadays. And, of course, how nice he looked this way.

“What are you doing here? And why aren’t you wearing trousers?” Jon demanded.

“What am I – I live here! What are _you_ doing here? At _3AM?”_ Martin said, his voice a little scratchy from sleep and binder abuse.

“I – Well, I...” Jon trailed off, combed his hair with his fingers, straightened his tie. “I’ve had a lot to work on. Lost track of time.”

Martin scoffed. “Apparently so.” Silence ticked on for a few moments, letting it finally sink in to Martin that he really wasn’t wearing anything but boxers and a binder. In front of his new boss. Who also happened to be his crush. _Oh no._

“Um, well, I should get going now. And – and you really should, too, you know, sleep is really quite important, and –“

“Hold on,” Jon interrupted. He stood and approached Martin, which is just about the last thing Martin has ever wanted to happen in his whole life. “Did you just wake up?”

Martin blinked. “Um. Yes?”

Jon narrowed his eyes up at him. “In your binder?”

“Ah, well... I just sort of forgot, and –“

“Nope, it comes off immediately.” Suddenly, Jon had has hands on Martin’s shoulders and was steering him back toward Document Storage. “Honestly, Martin, you know that’s not good for you. And I know it’s hurting, don’t you dare try to pretend it’s not.”

Martin thought to protest as Jon maneuvered him through the archives, but any part of his brain capable of coherent speech was currently preoccupied with the fact that _Jon_ had his hands on _Martin’s shoulders_. Tim was pretty much the only person Martin knew that Jon regularly allowed to touch him, and even he once got an earful after just ruffling Jon’s hair unexpectedly. But here Martin was. With Jon’s hands. On his shoulders. It was a bit distracting, to say the least.

Martin finally shook himself out of his thoughts when Jon took his hands away and shoved his own bag into his arms. “Change,” he said, voice slipping back into his straight-laced Head Archivist tone again. “I’ll go grab some water, it’s awfully hot in here.”

Document Storage was always dark. Even during the day, when the lights were on and buzzing overhead, there was always just one too many shadows to feel safe in the labyrinth of old filing cabinets. Usually, Martin loathed the room, but for once, he was rather glad of it. Now that he had time to gather his thoughts, a blush had bloomed over his cheeks, and he was certain it would be very obvious in lighting any better than this. 

Jon was gone a long time, far longer than it took Martin to remove the binder and replace it with an old band t-shirt. Martin started to fear that perhaps he had left after all; realized the ridiculousness of the situation, of caring for Martin, and fled back to his flat for some real sleep before work the next morning. Martin wasn’t sure he could blame Jon, necessarily.

Martin had just resigned himself to humiliation and lonely rib pain when he heard the door creak open again. For a moment, there were no footsteps. And then they came at an awkward, uneven pace, the gait of someone trying very, very hard to seem more casual than they felt.

Jon appeared around one of the filing cabinets with a glass of water. He was mumbling out an apology about how Elias apparently keeps the break room cabinets locked after hours. Martin wasn’t really listening over the blood pumping in his ears, anyway. He couldn’t be sure Jon was displaying his typical levels of eye contact avoidance or if he were pointedly looking away. Their fingers brushed as Jon handed the glass over and Martin nearly dropped it.

“I like it, by the way,” Jon said as Martin took a sip.

“What?”

“Your binder. The stripes. It’s the flag.” He gestured toward Martin’s binder, now laying ineffectually on the cot. It was patterned with stripes of blue, pink, and white.

“Right, yeah. Thanks!” Martin said. And then, because he was desperate not to end the conversation here, continued, “the - the place I got it from. Um, I can give you the website, if you’d like. They have loads of colors. You know, compared to most places.”

Jon hummed noncommittally. He continued staring at the binder. “Do they have other flags, too?”

“Oh! Yeah, a couple. I think I remember non-binary, genderfluid, agender...”

“Genderqueer?”

“Yeah, that one, too.”

“Ah. I’d like that.”

“Okay, yeah, I can text it to you, if you’d like.” Jon just hummed again in response.

The conversation drew quiet, then, with Martin sitting on the cot in his pyjamas and Jon standing a few feet in front of him, entangling and rubbing at his hands like he was unsure what to do with them. Martin was in a panic, trying to think of what to say that could engage Jon’s attention. Though as it turned out, he didn’t have to.

“I didn’t have any flags when I first came out. Still don’t, really, not enough,” Jon broke the silence, nearly making Martin jump in surprise. “I kind of... I wasn’t big into the community at first. I didn’t really see the point of advertising it, you know?”

Martin didn’t really know what to say to that, so he just nodded, and shifted over on the mattress, allowing enough room for Jon beside him. Jon stared at the spot Martin had once occupied, then back at the way he came. Whatever internal debate he held in his mind seemed to turn out in Martin’s favor because he eventually came over and cautiously, _cautiously_ sat beside Martin on the cot.

“I was like that for a while, longer than I’d like to admit. But then I met Georgie at uni and she helped me, you know, feel welcome with other trans people. And – and feel okay with myself. You know? This bracelet she made me and a flag tucked into a drawer back home is all I’ve got.” He held out his wrist to Martin, displaying an intricately-woven rainbow bracelet. With its fraying ends and worn-down underside, it looked like it was at least 10 years old and very well-loved.

Martin didn’t think he had ever heard Jon mention this Georgie person before, but he was also sure he had never heard Jon speak of anyone with such unadulterated admiration in his voice. He’d never admit it, but Martin felt a pang of jealousy at that. Whoever Georgie was, she must have been pretty amazing.

Not one to waste an opportunity, Martin continued on, “So you came out at uni, then?”

Jon snickered. “Yeah. You should have seen my grandmother’s face when I tried explaining to her what ‘genderqueer’ meant. I did and said many strange things in my childhood, but I think that was the first time I truly stumped her.”

“Tell me about it,” Martin said, “I told my mum I was a boy when I was 15, and she just... ignored it. Pretended I never said anything at all. Never even made a comment when I started T. She only stopped misgendering me when it became too confusing to the nurses to continue calling me her daughter.”

“What’s a maternal figure without a good dose of trauma, anyway?”

Martin snorted. “You know, I tried going by an old family name for a while, to see if it would appease her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Ernest.” Jon smiled, genuinely, brilliantly, and Martin wanted nothing more than to make that happen a million times over. 

“Good lord.”

“I know, I know. It obviously didn’t stick.”

“And thank god for that. You’re much more of a _Martin_.”

Martin’s heart was pumping. His entire body felt hot. He felt like he had just run up and down a flight of stairs for twenty minutes. In the short years of knowing Jon, he had never had such an open conversation with him. When they had met, Martin had just been hired into Research, and he was scared out of his mind. It didn’t help matters that he kept getting assigned to projects with one Jonathan Sims, his very stern, very attractive two-year senior. 

Martin spent enough time around Jon that he eventually got to know Tim, the one person in the whole of the institute persistent enough to poke through Jon’s sturdy emotional walls. And through enough nights out at the pub with Tim, Martin and Jon met Sasha. They were a little quartet, the four of them. No, they weren’t the best of friends, necessarily – Jon was never particularly outgoing, and Martin knew Tim and Sasha both had friends outside of work – but it was nice. For the first time in his life, Martin actually had a social circle, albeit a small one. Which was exactly why Martin wasn’t keen on jeopardizing that to chase after someone he had no chance with.

But... here they were, weren’t they? Talking like real friends about real things. History. Family. Gender. Opening up.

 _Don’t fuck this up_ , one part of Martin’s brain told him (at the same time that another, more traitorous part said, _kiss him kiss him kiss him)_. He shook both voices away.

Jon suddenly cleared his throat. “Are you feeling any better?”

“A bit, yeah,” Martin said. There was a beat of silence, but neither made to move. Eventually, Martin mustered up enough courage to ask, “Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“This!” Martin gestured out in front of him with both hands. “Offering me a place in the archives! Fussing over my sleep habits!” He didn’t say, You don’t even like me! but it hung in the air regardless.

“Because – because that’s...” Jon started, and trailed of again. “I’m sorry, I suppose I never really asked. Is all of this... okay?”

Martin groaned and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Yes, goodness, Jon, I couldn’t imagine what I’d have done if I had to go back to my flat right now. But that’s not what I mean.”

Jon just chuckled nervously. “Then I am very confused.”

Jon was confused? That made two of them. When he wasn’t being the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, Jonathan Sims was... normal. Fun, even. Prickly at times, sure, and more than a little closed-off, but he also had a sense of humor and liked dorky steampunk music and infodumped about chemistry. He was a friend. But within the walls of the institute, Jon turned into someone else entirely. Someone fickle and serious and skeptical and, to Martin’s eternal pain and bewilderment, mean.

“Nevermind,” Martin said, shaking his head. “Thank you, Jon.”

“Well. It’s the least I can do. Considering.” _That it was fear of_ your _ridiculously high standards that led me to be attacked by Prentiss in the first place,_ Martin silently finished for him. How does one manage to hold a grudge against their own crush? With lots of confusion and aspirin, that’s how.

Jon finally stood from the cot, stretched his legs, looked back down at Martin. “I best get back. Try to actually sleep for what few hours I can.”

“You know, I’m sure no one would notice if you came in a bit late tomorrow,” Martin said.

“And give Tim an excuse to sleep in every day after?” Martin couldn’t see Jon’s face very clearly from this angle, but he was pretty sure he was scowling again.

“Alright. Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

For the rest of that night, Martin dreamt nights out at the pub, and of sharing little backroom cots.

* * *

Several months passed. Jane Prentiss finally attacked the archives in full force, their little quartet had narrowly avoided death-by-a-thousand-worms, and Martin finally had another top surgery date. ‘Had’ as in past-tense. ‘Had’, as in ‘it was finally done with, and Martin, bandaged and sore, could not help but cry tears of relief upon looking down and seeing nothing but the chest that he had always wanted’.

But when Martin arrived in the hospital waiting room, all discharged and ready for the ride home, he didn’t see Tim anywhere. _Maybe he had to pee,_ Martin thought, _or went off to grab a coffee._ But the following minutes made those options seem less and less likely, until Martin finally turned on his mobile to find a barrage of frantic texts from the man in question.

> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: Hope everything goes well! Sweet dreams! I’ll be there when you wake, my sweet Martin-love.
> 
> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: Sasha also wishes you well. Jon made a noise that I think means “Tell Martin good luck and that I’m secretly desperately in love with him.”
> 
> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: Uhh we may have a problem actually
> 
> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: Okay we totally have a problem
> 
> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: Idk if you’re reading this rn or not but my car won’t start
> 
> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: Ugh are you fucking kidding me
> 
> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: Got Jon to dig out some jumper cables. Still got nothing
> 
> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: I’m sorry man we’ll figure out something dw
> 
> **Tim** 😘🔥✨: Okay okay okay we have a plan

> **Jon Sims:** Hello, Martin. Tim is having car difficulties, so he asked me to drive you home from the hospital. I’ll be there in 20 minuted.
> 
> **Jon Sims:** *Minutes.

_No no no no no no._ This was not good. Martin was just coming out of surgery and still mildly high on oxycodone. There’s no way he could face Jon right now with any shred of dignity. Not that he had much dignity in Jon’s eyes anymore regardless, he groused, thinking back to a certain night in the archives. Whatever, he still had time to compose himself.

“Ah, Martin. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Or not. Well, at least his death will be swift.

“Hi, Jon,” Martin stood, wincing a bit at the soreness in his chest. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Yes. Anyway, I’m parked on the third floor of the garage...”

* * *

The ride to Martin’s flat felt much longer than it should have. Neither of them said anything on the walk to the car, nor during the first five minutes of the drive. Jon tapped the steering wheel to the beat whatever soft rock song was playing over the radio. Ah, so it was still Jon the Head Archivist hours, then. Martin happened to know that Jon the Real Human With A Personality hated soft rock, as he had once drunkenly confessed in a pub that kept its speakers far too loud.

“Tim sends his regards,” Jon said, finally cutting through the silence. “I told him _someone_ has to stay back and do some work today, though he wasn’t particularly happy about it.”

Typical Jon. Though that begs the question... “Where’s Sasha?”

“Left early. She and her new boyfriend are going on a trip to the coast. I think she said Great Yarmouth.” Jon shrugged.

Martin repressed a smile at the grumpy way he forced out the word ‘coast’. “Not a fan of the ocean, are you?”

“I like the ocean just fine,” Jon said, “but I’ve had more than enough of little resort towns for one lifetime. I think if I step one foot in anything like Great Yarmouth, it might just be the death of me.”

“Or the death of whoever dragged you there,” Martin quipped. 

Jon snorted. “Most likely Tim.”

Okay, this was good. This was banter. Martin could work with banter. “Thank you again,” he said. “Have I said that enough? Thank you.”

“Yes, well, it’s not a problem.”

Martin couldn’t hold back a giggle. Damn painkillers. “No, but you gave up part of your workday to save me from taking the tube straight out of surgery. So thank you.”

Jon stopped tapping his fingers. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel more tightly. “It’s just common courtesy, Martin.”

“It’s really not.”

“Yes! It is.” Martin had no idea what made Jon so adamant over this, but he wasn’t willing to press with that tone of voice. If Jon noticed Martin’s change in demeanor, he didn’t let on. “And I was going to pass by this way anyhow, so I could pick up the rental history of Rosa Meyer’s flat from Case #972–“

“Why do you do that?” Martin interrupted.

Jon shut his mouth with an audible click, and opened it slowly again. “Do what?”

“Put up that...” Martin waved his hands around in front of him. It tugged at the bandages at his sides and he flinched. “That faux-professionalism thing.”

“I – I don’t know what you mean.”

Martin knew he would regret this sometime later, but right now he was powerless to stop the flow of words from his mouth. “I mean, we’ve known each other for years. We go out for drinks and for lunch when we can. And it takes me walking in on you in my pants to get you to even acknowledge we’re both trans?”

There was a tangible silence in the car then, even thicker and more stifling than the one from just minutes before. Martin began to worry he perhaps took it a step too far. Then, Jon spoke again.

“You know, I...” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t actually know until that night. That you were trans.”

Martin blinks once. Twice. _“What?”_

“In retrospect, it was very obvious, and – and I saw your flag on the desk a couple weeks later, and I felt so ridiculous, but –“

Martin started laughing, and Jon’s voice immediately died. Sometime later, Martin would feel bad for that, too. “You signed off on paid leave for top surgery, and you still thought I was cis?”

Jon huffed. “Well, I didn’t read through the whole bloody paper!” He snapped, “I was trying to get back to work!”

Martin’s smile fell. “Ah.”

And then the silence was back and oppressive as ever. Martin wondered if this was the way their relationship would always be: Martin digs and digs until Jon lets just enough of himself show to panic and clam up at the last second. Never truly near enough to be close, never far enough apart to ease Martin’s want to be. But whatever Martin wanted them to be, they weren’t ready for it. And it killed him.

The drive stretched on for another aching ten minutes. Martin was fairly sure he wouldn’t get another word from Jon before the ride was over, but once again, Jonathan Sims proved himself completely unpredictable.

“I’m... I’m sorry, Martin.”

“What?” Martin wasn’t exactly expecting anything, but out of the laundry list of possible words to come from Jon’s mouth, an apology was pretty damn near the bottom.

“I haven’t been fair to you. At all. Since we started working in the archives.” Jon gripped the steering wheel so hard now that Martin thought he might leave permanent indents.

“Really, Jon, it’s okay–“

“No, it’s not. This kind of behavior nearly got all of us killed. And anyway, it’s not – I’m not – the four of us were friends back in Research. Or so I’d like to think.”

Martin felt his heart jump into his throat. He nodded hastily. “Y-yeah, of course we were friends, Jon. We are friends.”

Jon laughed, once, but there was no humor in it. “Are we? Sasha has always been rather distant, but now she’s barely around. And Tim thinks I’ve gone mad after the whole... you know.”

“I do think he has the right to be upset over that one.”

“I _know_ that! Er, I just mean, I wish things weren’t like this. Ever since I’ve got the promotion, it’s been like this, and mostly because of me. I thought... I thought I had to be... professional.”

Martin raised his eyebrows and deadpanned, “Professional.”

Jon bit his lip. “Yes. Don’t give me that look, I’ve heard it from the others enough.”

“Professionals have friends, too, Jon.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Jon sighed, and Martin took that for all the answer he needed. Well, if Jon was going to be honest with his feelings...

“I admit, you’ve been a bit of a prick since we all moved to the archives. And I didn’t say anything because you were so stressed all the time. We all were, really, and with Elias breathing down our necks and then the worms and all... Not that that’s an excuse for being mean! I just – ugh. What I mean to say is, you did hurt my feelings, but I accept your apology.”

“Oh,” Jon said. “Right then.”

“Right,” repeated Martin.

Jon coughed awkwardly into his hand. “Do you, ah, you must be starving, right? We could – I mean, if you wanted – I don’t want to impose, but I thought –“

“There’s a Thai place a block from my flat that does great takeaway,” Martin cut in. Then, hastily, “If you’d like, that is.”

“Yeah. Yes! Yes, that sounds good. I’ll pay.”

“Jon, I can’t ask that.”

“You didn’t, I offered. Consider it an apology meal.”

Martin smirked. “So you think you can just buy me something and make everything better?”

“Oh! N-no!” Jon stammered, “I don’t – I didn’t mean –“

“Jon. I’m joking. Thank you,” Martin said.

“Of course,” Jon replied, chuckling hoarsely. “Anyway, you rest. Traffic like this and it’ll still be half an hour before we get there.”

Martin couldn’t say no to that. He leaned the seat back and nestled in for a nap. The last thing he saw before drifting off to sleep were two little flags – one blue, pink, and white, one green, white, and purple – hanging from the rearview mirror.


End file.
